


That Which Lies Buried Beneath the Snow

by VTsuion



Series: Tales of Baker Street [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Character Development, Death, December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness (Sherlock Holmes), Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mystery, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Prompt Challenge, Recovery, Snow, Vacation, Winter, small town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VTsuion/pseuds/VTsuion
Summary: Holmes and Watson spend the month of December in a charming village, high in the French Alps. However, it is not quite the peaceful respite they had hoped for.ForHades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tales of Baker Street [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148099
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt (from [Ennui Enigma](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3915215/Ennui-Enigma)): Holmes finds himself in a pickle... how will he save the year with only a few days left?!

It was an early night toward the end of December. All was dark and quiet, covered in a silent shroud of glistening snow, from the sloping valleys, up to the high, craggy peaks that brushed the dark grey clouds. Embedded in one such slope, far from any other sign of civilization, was a small town, peeking out from drifts of snow. The lone street that ran between the shuttered shops and houses was empty, the footprints from the day already softened by the still falling snow that swirled to the ground. What residents there were had since sheltered inside. The warm glow of their fires radiated from the windows, and smoke puffed out of their chimneys to mingle with the clouds above.

There was, however, a single set of fresh footprints; the small tread of a woman’s boot, leading through what passed for the center of town, down the road a little ways to a small inn. In the summer months, there were always travelers coming and going as they hiked along the valley, but in the winter, the inn was nearly deserted. It was not so late, but already the fireplace in the parlour was nearly down to glowing embers, its light supplemented by only a few lanterns, which shed a dim flickering light. The only inhabitants were a pair of strange gentlemen - one seated by the fire, and the other standing beside it, his tall, thin figure in dark silhouette - both their attention fixed on a young lady from the village who had, just moments before, burst into the parlour from the frigid evening.

As she entered she had seemed to be on the verge of exclaiming, but once she had acquired the audience she sought, she faltered, catching her breath upon the threshold.

“M. Holmes,” she said, as much a question as a statement.

The tall, thin gentleman inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Even here your name is known,” she began, her voice low and urgent. “I have heard that you can help me.”

Again, Mr. Holmes bowed his head and motioned for her to continue.

However, she hesitated. “Perhaps I should not have come” - she glanced out the window, but all she could see was the falling snow, drifting lazily to the ground. “But if I did not, I fear the consequences would be too terrible to bear. You know what he means to do?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied, “I am aware of his intentions.”

“Please, M. Holmes, you must stop him! The passes are closed now with the snow, but I have heard that by the new year, it will be clear enough to travel. Please, do we not deserve a little peace?”

“We will do all that we can,” Holmes said at last.

“Thank you, M. Holmes! Our lives rest in your hands. Now, I must go, quickly, before anyone wonders where I have gone.”

Only when she had fled back out into the night did the gentleman sitting by the fireside stir. He stood, revealing a somewhat shorter, broader stature. He went to his companion’s side and rested a hand upon Holmes’s shoulder, conveying unspoken volumes with the unassuming gesture.

“Holmes, whatever must be done, leave the work to me,” he said. “Do not forget that we are here so that you may rest and recover your health.”

A thin smile crossed Holmes’s aquiline features. “No my dear Watson, I believe in this instance that will not be necessary.”

Watson did not argue, he only replied, “Do you not also deserve a little peace?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt (from [Michael JG Meathook](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8560489/Michael-JG-Meathook)): Watson's sister.

The 2nd of December dawned bright and clear. The snow sparkled in the sun, and the frost laden trees and mountainous slopes alike stood against a cheerful blue sky. The small village perched upon the mountainside was still quiet, even as the dawn turned into day. A few shopkeepers tended their wares, some men and women went from here to there on daily errands, stopping to exchange a few hushed words as they went, as though not to disturb the fallen snow. A pair of gentlemen strolled by arm in arm, making a leisurely pace along the snowy thoroughfare. 

Dr. Watson took in a deep breath of the sharp mountain air. “I can think of nowhere more peaceful.”

Beside him, Holmes answered with a wry smile, “Do not be so certain, my dear Watson; even idyllic towns such as this have their mysteries. Take the young shopkeeper’s niece, for instance, see how she arranges the candles, placing them so intently with clear purpose, and yet to us there is no logic to be seen.”

Watson gave him a look that did not manage to be severe, instead only betraying his fondness for his companion. As his gaze was drawn back to the shop, he remarked, “Perhaps I might find a gift for my sister while we are here.”

That caught Holmes by surprise. “Your sister?” Once he may have inquired sharply, demanding that which was unknown to him be revealed, but now there was a caution to his tone, a fear that he might pry too deep.

“My late brother’s wife. I hardly knew her while he lived, but we began to write after my own bereavement.” Watson’s voice fell as he spoke, as though he might evade the words, his gaze lost in the distance.

Holmes glanced away, keenly aware of his own guilt. “In that case, I should also give a gift to such a worthy gentlewoman.”

Watson looked up at Holmes in astonishment at the suggestion. “Thank you, Holmes,” he said, with a soft smile. “I’m certain that between the two of us we ought to be able to find something suitable.”

“Without fail, my dear Watson.”

They meandered across the road, to browse the shop windows, doffing their hats to the shopkeeper‘s daughter as they went by - she self-consciously stepped away from the candles she had been occupied with arranging.

“A fine assortment,” Holmes remarked with a smile, “and each unique.” To Watson, he suggested, motioning toward the shelves inside, “Perhaps wine crafted from the alpine flora?”

Watson nodded. “Or - I have heard much of the local woodcarving.”

“An excellent selection! Or, what of the arrowheads supposedly left by the men of Hannibal as they marched over the passes?”

And so they spent the day, lingering around the shops, perusing trinkets and local delicacies alike, until the pale winter sun began to set.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [W. Y. Traveller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4716573/W-Y-Traveller)): Addiction.

The sun had long since fallen. The only light came from a flickering fire, dancing in the hearth. Watson sat huddled beside it, a blanket draped over his shoulders, to help the heat soak away the ache in his shoulder from a day spent out in the cold. His back was to the flames, so he looked in on their rooms at the inn, unable to keep himself from watching as Holmes paced back and forth around the beds. In the dim light, Holmes looked more ashen than pale, his already thin features worn away to the bone, with a feverish light in his stormy eyes that seemed to spark with the embers flung from the fire.

He turned again in restless motion, and his wild gaze met Watson’s. In an instant, he seemed to read him as though he were a book lying open upon the table.

“If you will recall, the idea was yours to travel to a god-forsaken place with not a missing spool of thread to keep my mind from turning to rot! It aches for work!” Holmes exclaimed, gesticulating wildly.

Watson frowned. For a moment he seemed ready to retort, but he only looked away, perhaps to turn back toward the flames.

Holmes faltered. “Come now, Watson,” he said, now pleading. He stepped forward and sunk to his knees so that they were eye-to-eye. “You know that I cannot help it; without simulation - whether intellectual or chemical - my mind wastes away. I am like a train spinning its wheels off the track. Please, John.” He tried to take Watson’s hands in his own, but Watson pulled away.

“No” - though Watson tried to remain level, his voice shook - “I cannot stop you, but I cannot bear to lose you again.”

With a great effort, Holmes fought to compose, if not master, himself. He took a shaky breath, though tension still wracked his spare frame and his chest heaved with exertion.

“My sincerest apologies, my dear Watson, I know that you have been sorely used, by myself worst of all. I fear you deserve much better than I can give.” Again, he took Watson’s hands in his own, and this time Watson allowed it. Holmes drew closer and looked Watson steadily in the eye. “But know that I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your so generous affection.”

Watson turned away, with a shake of his head, though he did not withdraw his hands. “Again and again I have wondered what would have happened had I remained at your side, if I had not left you to face the dreaded Professor Moriarty alone. And yet, even now that I am at your side once more, I could do nothing but watch as you wasted away; the endless sleepless nights, no time for food or drink, only work, until you fell, collapsed upon the ground, worn to the quick.”

“John,” Holmes said, drawing Watson’s eyes back to him.

“This was meant to be a much needed respite.”

“And so it shall.”

Holmes pulled back the blanket draped over Watson’s shoulders so that he could join him beneath it, ensconced together in the warmth radiating from the fire. He wrapped an arm around Watson’s waist to bring him closer still, and Watson allowed him, melting into Holmes’s side, his head against Holmes’s shoulder. Watson’s eyes still felt laden with tears long since shed, but he let them fall shut with a quiet sigh.

“I will not leave you again,” Holmes said softly.

“I should hope not.”

Their eyes briefly met and a silent exchange passed between them, and then Holmes leaned down for a gentle kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [zanganito](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2799817/zanganito)): Peppermint

“We always had peppermints at Christmas when I was a boy,” Watson said, craning over the counter of the village shop.

He glanced over at Holmes. It seemed the clouds of the night before had largely cleared away, leaving a bright new day.

“As did I,” Holmes said with a soft smile. “Our governess would give them to us in the hope that we would remain quiet at church, though it hardly ever sufficed.”

Watson chuckled. “A valiant attempt, I am sure. I believe we were deemed a lost cause and sent off to play before we caused too much ruckus.”

“I cannot imagine it of you, my dear Watson. Surely you were wrongly accused.”

“You are not the only one who can delight in turmoil.”

As they spoke, two young women entered the shop; one lingered off to the side, by the door, while the other came up to the counter, and said, “Two bags of peppermints please.” To Holmes and Watson she added, “It would not be the holidays without them.”

“Are you getting some for...” her companion began to chide, but broke off with a glance between Holmes and Watson and the large man behind the counter, and only concluded with a furtive, “ _ him _ ?”

The first young woman raised her head proudly. “Of course, I am - whatever papa may think.”

Again, her companion seemed prepared to protest, but her assessment of the company appeared to convince her otherwise.

Her point seemingly proven, the young woman turned to Holmes and Watson and said with a curtsy, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

Her companion followed suit. “Good afternoon. We do not see many visitors in the winter months.”

“We are here to benefit from the tranquil mountain air,” Holmes said arily.

She seemed perhaps unconvinced, but did not question further.

Meanwhile, her friend accepted a bag of candies from the shopkeeper. “Thank you, M. Voland.”

“It is my pleasure, Mlle. Fontaine,” he said. “Is that all?”

Mlle Fontaine appeared to be content to remain and speak with M. Voland, but her friend stood impatiently by the door, her hands crossed over her chest, and at last Mlle. Fontaine bid him adieu, and followed her friend out.

Holmes stepped up to the shopkeeper and asked with a wry smile, “M. Voland? Not M. Lefebre?” He motioned toward the sign on the door, bearing the latter’s name.

The large man shifted on his feet. “No, sir. I took over the shop from M. Lefebre.”

Holmes nodded. “I perceive that you have spent many years working with your hands.”M. Voland startled. “How did you know that?” he demanded.

“It is the calluses on your hands that give you away,” Holmes explained, but M. Voland seemed no more at ease, and so Holmes turned to business. “A bag of peppermints, if you please.”

“Holmes, you needn’t,” Watson insisted, but Holmes would hear none of it. M. Voland obliged and Holmes and Watson continued on their way in the chill mountain air, both enjoying their spoils.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [Ennui Enigma](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3915215/Ennui-Enigma)): Dr Watson almost quits.

“Holmes, I daresay we have had enough,” Watson declared.

“Come now, Watson, all of the clues which you require lie before you. You are not so far from the solution.” Holmes turned to the young man sitting with them beside the fire in the parlour of the inn, where they had all retired after supper. “M. Dupond, what do you make of the evidence?”

M. Dupond thoughtfully mulled over the evidence. “You say that it is an object, with a particular use, but which is not a tool, not typically found in or around the house, or on a farm, or in a shop - except for a particular kind of shop, which is not a village shop, or a tobacconist, or a tailor, nor any of the other things we have suggested to you?”

“An excellent summation of the evidence,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Could it be found in this village?” Watson asked, still uncertain whether to continue or forfeit.

Holmes chuckled. “No, I cannot imagine its residents would have a use for such a thing.”

“What about on a ship?” M. Dupont tossed out the suggestion.

“Yes, or so I should hope.”

“Truly?” M. Dupont asked, surprised.

Holmes inclined his head.

“The wheel then?”

“No.”

“Sails?”

Again the answer was in the negative.

“Life boats? Rigging? Spar?” He listed them off, but still none hit the mark.

“You know quite a lot about sailing,” Watson remarked. “You have traveled far?”

M. Dupond faltered, suddenly embarrassed. “No, I only work on a shipyard in Marseille.”

Watson gave Holmes a look of familiar, fond exasperation.

Holmes only answered with a smile, “I knew you would come to it eventually.”

“You- you somehow knew?” M. Dupond asked, bewildered.

Holmes drew himself up with only partially affected pride. “It is my business to know what others do not.”

“Is it?” M. Dupond seemed to consider the possibility, but said no more.

“What brings you to such a remote village in the heart of winter?” Watson asked. “We have merely come for a little quiet.”

M. Dupond hesitated. “My family is from here.”

As the conversation trailed off, Holmes drew the others back to the game. “You have found where the object hides, but its identity still remains undiscovered.”

For a moment they both sat, considering. The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Is it any part of the ship?” M. Dupond asked at last.

“No,” Holmes said, “I fear Dr. Watson and I lack your particular expertise.”

“I have had some travels of my own,” Watson said, his gaze momentarily lost on the dancing flames. “What I recall most vividly of my brief time at sea were the dreadful rations, even worse than the standard fare. Is it hardtack?”

Holmes shook his head, but his eyes lingered on Watson, silently, cautiously questioning.

The corners of Watson’s lips lifted slightly in a suggestion of a smile. “I forget, Holmes, you never traveled by ship?”

“Only over the channel, I am afraid. I dared not venture so far as to cross the ocean.”

They may have said more, but remembering the presence of M. Dupont and their game, Watson instead asked, “Could it be a compass?”

“Very close, my dear Watson,” Holmes said.

“A map?” It was not M. Dupond nor Dr. Watson, but the innkeeper who had come by and could not help but overhear.

“Precisely!” Holmes crowed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [cjnwriter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4334138/cjnwriter)): "Lestrade begins acting strangely. Why?"

It was a quiet morning. Thick clouds blanketed the sky and every sound seemed muffled by gently falling snow, even their crunching footsteps. Holmes and Watson strolled through the village on their daily promenade, their eyes as much on the other as upon the world around them. With a soft chuckle, their conversation had fallen into an easy, comfortable silence, as befits two who know each other so intimately.

Then, Holmes leaned a little closer, pressing his lips to Watson’s ear. “Do not turn, but I believe that we are being followed.”

It took a significant effort not to jerk his neck around to see their apparent pursuer, but Watson remained facing forward as Holmes maneuvered them casually around, as though to peer into a shop window. Only then did Watson spare a glance off to the side to see a man lingering some paces behind. It could have merely been a coincidence, but clearly Holmes had seen more.

“He looks like Lestrade when he has found a scent,” Holmes whispered, his attention apparently fixed upon the shop window.

As they turned again to continue on their way Watson admitted, “I do not see the resemblance.”

“No? They could very well be brothers; the man of Scotland Yard and the country constable.”

He kept pace with them all the way back to the inn, but when they turned to go inside, the man was gone.

Holmes and Watson had settled in the parlour of the inn for the afternoon, as though it were their very own sitting room at Baker Street. Watson was immersed in a novel and Holmes sat smoking his pipe and gazing out the window, watching the snow softly drift to the ground, ever so often observing the people who passed by on the narrow, snow covered lane. Their only fellow guest at the inn, M. Dupond, was out on some errand and had not yet returned.

For some time all had been quiet, an inch or more of fresh snow had fallen, undisturbed by any human tread, when a man came by, passing one way, and then, a little time later, the other, and now back again.

“It is our dear Inspector once more,” Holmes said at last.

Watson made a wordless noise of acknowledgement, and for a moment or two continued with his reading, before suddenly glancing up in surprise, having only half-processed the words that had been said. “Inspector? You mean the constable? What do you think it is that he wants?”

“I believe that we will very soon discover. His air is not so different from Inspector Lestrade when he oscillates upon our doorstep. You know the funny little two-step that he does.”

Sure enough, the constable then passed out of their view once more, coming toward the inn.

“You think he means to consult you?” Watson asked, not quite displeased, but nor entirely pleased by the prospect.

“I am not certain,” Holmes admitted. “I did not think my reputation had traveled quite so far as this, and that would hardly suffice to explain his earlier behavior. But if he does, then I will do all that I can from the comfort of this armchair. In either case, it is not an unwelcome afternoon’s diversion.”

Before either of them could say more, the door opened and the man came into the parlour.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said promptly. “I am Constable Durand, I wished to welcome you to our village. It is unusual for travelers to come through in so late a season.”

“It is our pleasure,” Holmes said. “We are here to enjoy the restful quiet for which your village is so rightly known.”

“You have come all the way from London, is that so?”

Holmes acknowledged that they had.

“I did not realize that word of our little village had traveled so far.” Even on a social visit, the constable’s tone remained that of an agent of the law.

“We are fortunate to have many well-traveled acquaintances.”

Watson elaborated, “A colleague of mine had hiked through the pass one summer and recommended your charming village.”

“How long ago?” the constable asked.

“Some years now, I believe. Do you perchance recall a Doctor James Ansruther?”

The constable shook his head. “You are also doctors?”

“Correct on only one count,” Holmes answered with a smile. “I am more along your own line of work - an unofficial detective of a sort.”

The very notion seemed to offend the constable, though with some effort he kept his manner civil. “You are not here on some investigation?”

“No, on the contrary, I am here on medical orders, forbidden from investigating so much as a missing shoestring.”

Still, after such a reassurance, the constable felt the need to assert, “Well, we have no need for such business here. This town is a quiet one, and it is my duty alone to keep it that way, with no outside interference necessary.”

Holmes waved it off. “Then we are all in agreement; you and the doctor both.”

He peered at Holmes for a moment longer, as though unsure whether to take him at his word. At last he gave a sharp nod and said, “Very good. It is a pleasure to meet you gentlemen. Have a pleasant, quiet stay.”

Holmes and Watson each thanked him, and then he went on his way.

Once he had gone, Holmes turned to Watson and remarked, “I wonder what it is that he was truly after with his interrogation. I have the distinct impression that he was none too pleased with what was unearthed.”


	7. Chapter 7

“M. Detective! M. Detective! A girl - she’s been killed!” The boy had come running into the inn and now stood panting in the parlour, his dreadful news delivered.

Holmes glanced questioningly at Watson, but under the circumstances, neither could offer much in the way of protest, even if they had wished. Watson nodded his assent and they both hurried into coats and scarves, and followed the boy out into the snow.

“This way, quick!” he said, his energy renewed, as he guided them along a path less frequently tread, up toward the houses perched upon the mountainside above the town.

He led them behind a small cottage, to the snow covered chicken coup, where two more children were gathered. And on the ground beside them lay the young girl who they had seen arranging the candles in the village shop window the day after they had arrived. The snow around her was splotched bright red with blood.

Watson was the first to the girl’s side. He knelt beside her, searching for the terrible wound by which she had fallen in the desperate hope that she still had enough life in her that there was something - anything - which he could do to mend it, but afraid that they had come too late.

But to his great astonishment, he saw that her chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths. And he could feel her heart beating quickly in her wrist.

At the touch, one of her eyes fluttered open and he let out a soft hissing noise, that at first he took for a hiss of pain, but which, after a moment, he realized sounded more like a quiet shushing noise.

Watson glanced up at Holmes, and Holmes gave an answering look of amusement.

Holmes then turned to the other children, his expression severe. “This is a most serious matter which demands urgent investigation. Anyone may be a suspect. Fortunately I perceive several indicative clues.” To the boy who had come to fetch them he said, “Your boots, for example, have a very distinctive tread.”

The boy lifted his foot and all craned around to look at it, even the girl who was playing the part of the corpse.

“That very same tread which can be seen beneath the corpse, which on account of the recent snow cannot be more than hours old.”

The girl hastily lay down again as Holmes directed their attention to a near identical footprint broken off by the girl’s leg.

“Very suggestive, is it not?” 

“What do you mean?” the boy demanded. “If I did it, why would I have run to get you?”

“You would not be the first criminal to think that he can outwit Sherlock Holmes.”

With that, Holmes’s attention returned to the scene of the crime. He stooped over the girl, examining some tufts of hair upon the ground beside her, and picked up a single strand to look at it more closely.

All of the children were watching him intently.

“It is a most curious case. The hair of a wolf, if I am not mistaken.” Holmes handed it to Watson before turning his attention to the other boy. “By your fur coat I can see that you are the son of the tanner.”

“My brother,” the boy said timidly.

“I see. And where else could one find wolf fur than in his shop?” Holmes then rounded on the final suspect - a girl. He peered at her for a moment before declaring, “I am afraid it is the specks of blood upon your trousers that give you away. Taken from the butchershop, I presume?”

“My uncle is the butcher, M. Detective,” she said. “If I have blood on my trousers, it is only because I was helping him.”

“A remarkable coincidence, then, that the blood is just as fresh as the blood we see upon the snow - if your uncle would, as you suggest, corroborate that you were helping him at the time, and not ‘borrowing’ a little blood for your own purposes.” Holmes at last turned to the girl, still lying on the ground, who quickly shut her eyes. “And, of course, the final piece of the puzzle is your poor victim, who is, thankfully, yet alive.”

Holmes motioned to Watson who helped the girl up onto her feet.

“An excellent performance!” he declared at last, applauding the young actors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [trustingHim17](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4022638/trustingHim17)): Pranks are fun, and mistakes can be amusing. Describe a less-than-serious event in Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [sirensbane](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1547699/sirensbane)): Horses

It was a beautiful day; the sky was a clear, bright blue and the snow sparkled in the sun.

“Perfect for a stroll,” Watson declared as he and Holmes sat at breakfast at the inn.

“So much so that I was thinking we might perhaps enjoy something a little further afield,” Holmes suggested with a wave of his fork. “If we wished to explore the magnificent landscape, today would be the day to chance it.”

Watson examined Holmes, unable to glean all that Holmes himself would have deduced from a glance, but still capable of drawing some conclusions of his own. Holmes was perhaps not so thin and wan as when they had arrived, his cheeks rosier from the time they had spent in the brisk mountain air, his eyes alight with the prospect of another adventure.

Still, Watson cautioned, “Holmes, you are certain you are up to the hike?”

“We need not put the burden solely on our own legs. In such a village, I would be most surprised if we could not find a steed or two for hire to aid in our travels over the treacherous terrain.”

The prospect of exploring the landscape was not without its appeal and Watson gave his assent with a smile.

After breakfast, Holmes spoke to the innkeeper.

When Holmes had put their problem to her, the innkeeper replied, “M. Laval has a mule that he hires out in the summer, but I cannot think of any other. She is in high demand the rest of the year, but now I am sure he would be pleased to have some work for her. He is a good man, in his way.”

“Thank you, Mme. Beauregard,” Holmes said. “I believe that will do nicely.”

Holmes and Watson layered on their coats and ventured out into the already waning morning. They strolled through the town, as though on one of their usual promenades, but they did not stop when they reached the end of the lane. Instead, they continued up a winding way, past a cluster of cottages, to a small hut on the outskirts of the village.

The man who answered the door exclaimed at the sight of them, “You are the detectives?”

“I see that my reputation precedes me,” Holmes said. “Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, the esteemed Dr. Watson. We were hoping to hire your mule for the day for a short excursion into the mountains.”

M. Laval seemed surprised. “Is that all? In that case, certainly, you may have Beatrice. Only, do not go beyond the ridge, and if she refuses to go anywhere, you will not be able to force her - and she is always right. She has saved my own life more times than I can count.”

“Thank you, M. Laval, it is very kind of you to loan her to us.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Winter is a lean season for us all here.”

Holmes took Beatrice’s reins and she led them up the mountainside. They took a narrow winding path, away from the village, into a loose copse of evergreens - the only trees that could grow even there, in the thin air, where their tops brushed the clouds. That day, however, the sky was clear. As they passed out of sight of the village, they may have been the only men in the world. All was still and silent aside from the rushing of the wind and the occasional snatch of birdsong.

A shiver ran down Watson’s spine, and not on account of the cold. He could not see the rocky cliffs, but he knew that they were there, just over the snowbank. And it was all too easy to slip on the snow covered ground.

Holmes and Beatrice slowed ahead of him - he had not even noticed his own pace faltering.

Quietly, as to not upset the precariously balanced snow, Holmes called back to him, “Watson?” He left Beatrice and quickly descended to Watson’s side. “Are you quite alright?”

Watson gave his head a shake. “It is nothing.”

Holmes took Watson’s hands in his own, though there were layers of gloves and mittens between them. His lips quirked upward. “My recent illness has not entirely relieved me of my senses.”

That earned an answering twitch of a smile from Watson, but it did not last long. “Fortunately so.”

Holmes looked out upon the snowy slope. “I did not remain through the winter, but these mountains are unmistakable in any season.” Meeting Watson’s eyes once more, he continued, “I am certain we could find somewhere else similarly removed from the bustle of London life. The seashore perhaps?”

“No, that is not necessary,” Watson protested. “Ansruther was right, there is nowhere so quiet for you to recuperate.”

“And yet, it is curious… But now is neither the time nor the place. Shall we return to town for tea by the fire?” Holmes made to offer Watson his arm.

Watson took a deep breath of the sharp mountain air and accepted it, but answered, “No, I will be all right, so long as the cold is not too much for your health. I should not live in fear of a mountain. We could go up to the overlook, at least.”

“Very good,” Holmes declared.

Arm in arm, they rejoined Beatrice and they all lumbered up the slope, until the trees gave way to plain white snow, and when they had ascended the snowbank, they could see for miles around. Rocky mountains resembled islands breaking a white sea, the blankets of snow like a layer of clouds beneath a blue sky. Below them, they could see the town, all toy cottages clustered on the mountainside - most, but hardly all with white smoke billowing up from the chimneys. And just on the other side of the little ridge was an old castle built into the rock.

Holmes and Watson held each other tightly as they surveyed the sweeping landscape below, their breath swept from their lungs. They exchanged a wide-eyed glance of wonder.

Beatrice summed it all up with an emphatic bray.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [Book girl fan](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4129999/Book-girl-fan)): Mary has a case.

That evening, Holmes and Watson sat by the fire in the parlour of the inn. Outside the sun had since set, giving way to darkness, but inside was cheery and warmly lit. However, it was not quite enough to chase away all the lingering shadows. Watson stared long and hard into the dancing flames, his cup of tea gone cold between his hands. Holmes sat back in the chair beside him, observing in silence, his keen mind as always racing.

At last, softly, Holmes spoke, “My dear Watson, you know as well as I that the fault is not your own.”

Watson was startled by the sudden address, but quickly recovered. “I am all right, Holmes, truly.”

“I acknowledge that I am in no position to argue, and yet, the crease of your brow cannot be denied.”

Watson sighed and his gaze wandered back toward the flames. “Mary always had the right balm for her friends when they were in need of it.”

Holmes nodded. They both knew that there was little he could say upon the matter; it was not his place and now he could not even suggest the antidote of work.

“She even solved a mystery once. It was while you were gone.”

“I am sorry to have missed it,” Holmes said, a serious undercurrent beneath the otherwise light reply.

Watson glanced up to meet Holmes’s gaze, and a silent assurance passed between them, conveying in silence that which would have been more difficult to say in words.

“Her friend’s husband had disappeared. That is what brought it to mind. I will never forget her anguish as she told Mary her tale. I was but an observer to the scene, an intruder but for Mary’s suggestion that I could somehow be of assistance. But all I felt, and acutely, was my own helplessness as she poured out her sorrows.

“Her husband was traveling for work. He had left in the morning and by the next day he still had not returned. She telegrammed, and they said that he had never arrived at all. She was desperate, and” - he glanced at Holmes - ”I feared the worst.

“Mary, however, had a clearer head than I. You would have admired the workmanlike way she went about it. She called the maid for papers from the day before and meanwhile sent me to the station to ask after his train. I returned without a word of anything that could have gone amiss to find that Mary and her friend were likewise empty handed.

“Well, the long and short of it is that I went with them as they spent the remainder of the day riding the train out from London, stopping at every station to ask if anyone had happened to see him or anything else out of the ordinary, for that matter. We had nearly gotten to the end of the line when at last, to my surprise, the stationmaster said he had seen a gentleman nearly trampled by a horse the day before. He had been rushed to the nearest doctor and to his knowledge that was where the man remained.

“We immediately called for a cab to take us to the doctor to see this man ourselves. He was still at the doctor’s practice, but his condition had so far recovered that he was able to receive guests. Mary’s friend was so greatly relieved, she thanked us both more profusely than surely I deserved. It was her husband, of course - he had merely been unable to telegram on account of his condition.”

“Of course,” Holmes replied with a smile.

Watson shook his head. “All I could think, as I saw the poor woman, crying tears of joy at being reunited with her dear husband, was that my own anguish would never so easily be mended.”

Quietly, even though they were alone in the parlour Holmes murmured in reproach, “John.”

“Mary deserved better. Months later, I wondered if even by then she had begun to suffer what had at first seemed like such an innocuous cough.”

Holmes discreetly took Watson’s hand to convey the reassurance he could not through words alone. “I came back as soon as I had heard, but I know now that I could not have returned soon enough. But I feared that were I to return, I would lead every enemy I had made back to you.”

“I know,” Watson said, taking Holmes’s hand in turn. “But what if they had gotten to you first?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [zanganito](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2799817/zanganito)): Snow Angels.

A piece of something light brown pierced the surface of the snow. It could have been the very end of the jagged tip of a broken stick, but upon closer inspection, the edge was too smooth to have occurred without the careful crafting of a human hand. Holmes stooped over and carefully pulled it out from the snow by what made itself known to be the tip of a wing.

“Halloa!” Holmes exclaimed to his companion upon that fine winter’s day, holding up the treasure he had rescued from the snow. “Watson, what do you make of this?”

Cradled in his gloved hand was a small wooden figure dressed in a simple gown, its wings outstretched.

“An angel,” Watson said. “Someone must have dropped it.”

“Excellent, my dear Watson! We will make a detective of you yet!”

Watson expressed some reproach at Holmes’s teasing, but he could not hold back a smile. “What do you make of it then?”

Holmes tutted. “It does not do to come to conclusions before one has sufficient data.”

“You mean to say that you don’t know either?”

“I can say nothing aside from that it is a charming little figurine, plainly purchased at the village shop for gentleman of the name Jaques, which, given the recent snowfall, must have been dropped before this morning, but no earlier than yesterday.”

“Holmes!” Watson exclaimed in disbelief that Holmes never ceased to draw such remarkable conclusions apparently from nothing.

He handed the figurine to Watson and motioned for him to examine it for himself.

Watson turned the figurine this way and that. “I do not see-” abruptly, he broke off. Engraved on the bottom was the very name Holmes had indicated. “That is hardly a fair trick.”

Holmes shook his head. “It is just as I have always said; you need but observe.”

Watson gave Holmes a stern look as he handed back the figurine and looped his arm through Holmes’s once more. “Where to now?” he asked. “I presume you mean to return it to its rightful owner.”

“Certainly.”

“How?”

“As pleasant it would be to spend the remainder of the day knocking on every door in the village in search of M. Jaques, I believe that in this instance it would be a more efficient approach to begin where our little figure originated and retrace its steps, so to speak.”

“To ask at the village shop?” Watson clarified.

“Precisely.”

They continued on their leisurely stroll into the heart of town, with perhaps a little more purpose to their stride. All was quiet, as it usually was; they passed a man on their way and a few women talked softly among themselves as they went by. In such a small village, it was no surprise that every pair of eyes followed them, curious about the strange visitors in the depths of winter, even though it had been ten days already since they had arrived.

As they approached the shop, they saw the girl who had been arranging candles in the window, now lying in the snow just outside, waving her arms across the ground to make a snow angel. She sat up and called to them, “M. Detective, who is your angel for? Will you be taking it down to the castle? This one is for mama,” she added, motioning to the snow angel behind her.

“To the castle?” Watson asked.

The girl gave a serious nod. “That is where all the angels go.”

Holmes had some further question on the tip of his tongue when he was interrupted.

“Come in out of the cold,” the shopkeeper, M. Voland, called to the girl from the doorway of his shop.

“Must I?” the girl asked.

He held firm.

“Perhaps you can help us,” Holmes said, as the girl slowly got to her feet. “On our walk we found this little angel buried in the snow. It says that it is for a M. Jaques.”

“I can return it to its rightful owner,” M. Voland said gruffly.

Holmes handed him the figurine. “Thank you. I would not wish for him to lose a thing of such importance.”

The girl appeared ready to say more, but before she had the chance M. Voland ushered her inside with a shake of his head.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [trustingHim17](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4022638/trustingHim17)): Describe a time when Watson noticed danger before Holmes because of his preference for novels.

“Holmes,” Watson said, but then faltered as Holmes’s keen attention turned to him.

They had retired to their room in the inn for the evening. Holmes now sat beside the fire in his old mouse dressing gown, the flickering light casting ever-shifting shadows across his features. The sparkling embers gave his eyes an unnatural light.

At last, Watson asked, “Do you truly mean to hike out to that castle on the mountainside?”

“I have been assured that it is a short, pleasant jaunt by the lower path, just the light exercise which the doctor ordered. And you cannot deny that you are likewise intrigued by the curious local custom of leaving little angels at the castle door.”

It was probably just the chill night air, made perhaps a little more susceptible by the dim light, but a shiver ran down Watson’s spine. “It is presumably nothing; a mere fancy,” he argued.

“Aha, I see it plainly now; you have been sorely influenced by Doyle and his literary ilk. It was just a month ago, was it not, that you had been so inspired by tales of remote Transylvanian villages and myths of vampires lurking in ancient castles.”

“I do not truly believe it,” Watson protested.

“Surely not, you are a man of reason.”

“I only fear-” again Watson faltered.

“Yes, my dear Watson?’ Holmes said, a spark of humor still shining in his eyes, but his voice was gentle, encouraging even, drawing Watson back to him.

“You must have surely seen it, Holmes. The village is quiet, more peaceful than could have been hoped, but the people seem wary. Perhaps it is the ominous suggestion of the castle looming over us, which did not occur to me at first because I was otherwise preoccupied, but which, you are right, now I have not been able to shake from my mind. But you have seen the villagers watching us when we venture out into town, or the shopkeeper, M. Voland, so hastily hurrying his niece inside. You know how children are, but I cannot but wonder if there was something which he did not wish for her to say to us.”

“As you have said, it is a quiet town. Visitors are a rarity, particularly in the depths of winter. It is no wonder that we are at once a curiosity and something to be wary of.”

“But I could have sworn that it is even more so now than when we arrived.”

That gave Holmes a moment’s pause. “There is not enough evidence to be certain.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Watson admitted. “But I cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss; that there is something lurking in their midst and that we particularly are not so welcome.”

“Constable Durand certainly was not so eager to welcome an unofficial detective, but that is not so unusual. Nor sadly is it so unusual for men such as M. Laval, who was so kind as to loan us his mule, to be wary of any manner of official. There have been other things, of course; the displeasure of M. Voland at my simple observations, and our fellow visitor, M.Dupond’s reluctance to disclose the purpose for his visit. But there is nothing that paints so dire a picture as you suggest.”

Watson did not argue, but nor did he so easily assent.

“It should not be so difficult a matter to lay to rest, and will provide a pleasant diversion besides.”

“Holmes, your health,” Watson protested.

“Do not fear, Watson. It will be a simple investigation; any manner of spectres need not apply.”

Watson sighed and allowed himself to nestle beside Holmes by the fire, but though they huddled close together, their thoughts could not have been more distant; Holmes already intent upon his mystery, and Watson afraid of where it might lead.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [mrspencil](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2328726/mrspencil)): icing on the cake.

“It seems you will have it your way after all, Watson,” Holmes said over breakfast the next morning. Beneath his airy tone was a bitter edge, however slight. “The snows have picked up again, so we cannot venture out to the castle regardless.”

Watson felt a little weight lift from his shoulders, but he knew better than to celebrate the victory which could only be a temporary one.

As though to confirm it, M. Dupond, seated at another small table just a few feet away, said, “It will probably be clear again in a few days, though with the mountain weather it is difficult to know.”

“You are eager to depart?” Holmes asked.

M. Dupond answered with an awkward laugh, “No, but I would not hope to be snowed in.”

Holmes was about to make some reply, but he abruptly stopped to listen.

Faintly, he could make out a young man’s voice, low and urgent, coming from the kitchen. “Please, I need your help! I cannot do it alone!”

The three guests exchanged a glance, all of their curiosity piqued.

The innkeeper, Mme. Beauregard, shushed the young man, but they could still make out her voice, “There is no need to panic, M. Renaud.”

“Yes, yes, you are right,” the man replied. “But it must be just right!”

“It will be fine,” Mme. Beauregard reassured him.

“You mean that you will do it?”

“Yes, I believe I can manage it.”

“But carefully!” M. Renaud insisted. “If he finds out then all will be lost!”

“I know.”

They heard a faint sigh. “I do not know what to do.”

“M. Fontaine is stubborn as a bull,” Mme. Beauregard acknowledged, “But so is Mlle. Anne.”

“For her, everything must be perfect!”

“I am sure that if anyone can give her a perfect day, you can.”

“I am very lucky to have found a woman who loves me despite it all. I only wish to give her the best of everything in return.”

“I will ensure that she gets a cake worthy of a queen for her birthday,” Mme. Beauregard reassured him.

“You have my eternal gratitude.”

“It is my pleasure, especially after everything you have done to help.”

“Not at all,” M. Renaud insisted. “Thank you!”

With that, M. Renaud hurried out, and Holmes, Watson, and M. Dupond were left to consider what they had just overheard.

Holmes was the first to speak. “So that is the mysterious gentleman for whom Mlle. Fontaine was so intent upon purchasing peppermints.”

Watson took a moment longer to recall it, but then he nodded along. “Yes, and her friend mentioned that her father would not be pleased, did she not?”

“Indeed, Watson, it is a classic case of the disapproved suitor. This is truly the icing on the cake of our day spent consigned to the inn, out from under the shadow of your looming castle. It is a pretty mystery as to why the baker has come to ask the innkeeper for a cake.”

M. Dupond gave a sober nod. “Yes, I wonder,” he said, before abruptly seeming to notice the remainder of the company. He rose from his seat. “Good morning, gentlemen, I best be off.”

Holmes watched him go, his keen mind already coming to fresh conclusions and discarding them in turn.

Watson kept a wary eye on Holmes, but there was little he could do.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [cjnwriter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4334138/cjnwriter)): "Fruitcake."

Holmes stared intently into the fire, his thoughts doubtless far beyond the dancing flames. Watson sat in the chair opposite him, alternately reading and glancing up at Holmes, at once curious what his keen mind had already uncovered and keeping an eye out for any sign of relapse back into the illness that had mandated their vacation in the first place. But even Rome did not fall in a single afternoon, and so at last Watson returned to his reading

However, he did not have long before M. Dupond joined them in the parlour with a preoccupied, “Good afternoon, M. Holmes, Dr. Watson.”

Holmes’s attention quickly turned from the dancing flames to the new arrival.

M. Dupond took the remaining chair by the fire and set the package he had been carrying down upon the table. From it, he drew out a loaf of fruitcake, and cut a thin sliver.

After taking a single bite he said, “You are welcome to try it, but it is dry and I have not a clue what spices he put in.”

“You have been to the bakery?” Holmes asked, accepting a slice, which he examined like a piece of evidence rather than something to eat.

“Yes, and it is all wrong. My aunt and uncle used to run the bakery. Their fruitcake was always moist and beautiful; it was a holiday treat when I came here as a child. The whole town has changed so much since then.” He sighed. “M. Holmes, are you truly a detective?”

Holmes raised his chin. “Yes, I have made something of a name for myself in London in my small way, with no little thanks to Dr. Watson’s accounts of my cases.” He gave Watson a small smile.

“Then perhaps you may be able to help me.”

Holmes turned to Watson, questioning, and M. Dupond’s gaze quickly followed, if more perplexed.

Watson shrugged, unable to truly offer any protest, and, he could not deny, intrigued.

Having acquired the necessary permission, Holmes motioned for M. Dupond to proceed, and leaned forward in intent interest.

“You see, it is like this,” M. Dupond began. “My father was born in this village, but left for the city to seek his fortunes. When I was young, we returned every few years to visit his family, and since his death, I have been writing to my dear aunt and uncle. I do not, perhaps, write so frequently as I ought, but we would exchange a few letters each year, at least. However, I have not heard from them in some years now. At first, I thought it was not so unusual; it is not uncommon for mail to get lost in the mountains, and that winter was a particularly harsh one. But it has now been more than three years, and I have not heard from them, though I have sent several letters since.

“Finally, I decided to come and pay them a visit, and see if all was well, only to find that they cannot be found. Their bakery has been taken over by this young M. Renaud who does not even know how to bake a cake, and no one can tell me where they are, not even Constable Durand. I do not know what to do! Plainly, something is amiss, but in a town so small and peaceful, I cannot fathom what could have befallen them.”

Holmes sat for a minute or more considering M. Dupond’s tale, his hands steepled before him. “It is indeed a deeper matter than I had thought. Watson, I am afraid you were not mistaken that there may be some danger lurking after all - though I do not believe it is quite time to call it spectres just yet. M. Dupond, tell me precisely, when did you last receive a letter from your uncle and aunt?”

“It must have been four years ago, that August.”

Holmes nodded. “They said nothing out of the ordinary, expressed no desire for a change of scenery?”

“No,” M. Dupond said, “they would never leave this village, and I am certain that this is where they lived. I remember their bakery well.”

“It is remarkable how well one recalls the scenes of childhood. And when did you send the first letter to which they did not respond?”

“By then it was late October; the snows had already begun in the mountains.”

“And the next letter?”

“Not until April, I am afraid.”

“You meant to wait until the snows had passed?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“In their letters, did your aunt or uncle ever express any sense of danger? Did anyone bear them any animosity for any reason? Anything unusual, however apparently inconsequential, may in fact be of the utmost import.”

“There are always little arguments in a small town like this, but I don’t think there was anything serious.”

“Would it be possible for me to read these letters? I presume you have brought them with you.”

“Yes, certainly, if you believe that it will help in any way.”

“It may. Now, you have carried out some investigation of your own already, is this so?”

“Yes, though I am afraid that it has raised more questions than it has answered.”

“Then you are asking the correct questions, at the least. Let us hear the complete account of your investigation, from the beginning, if you please, omitting no detail. When did you arrive?”

“Nearly three weeks ago, on the 26th of November. I arrived at the bakery, expecting to find my aunt and uncle there - I could hardly imagine that it had been anything other than abysmal luck, resulting in waylaid letters, or that they had simply forgotten, occupied with daily life. However, I only found M. Renaud there, and when I asked him about my aunt and uncle, he claimed not to know them, that I had come to the wrong place.

“I had no choice but to come to the inn. The next day I spoke to Constable Durand, but he had little more to say. He had no record of them, alive or dead, and I do not think he liked that I was asking questions - there is something brutish about the man. I also asked Mme. Beauregard, she said that they were gone, but could say no more. I have since spoken to nearly half the town, and I have heard that they have left, died, and never existed at all. And I have checked, they have no grave in the cemetery. But I know that they truly lived here, whatever has befallen them!”

“It is not so unusual for a small, remote village such as this to protect their own when faced with the inquiries of an outsider. I am afraid that even if I may discover what has become of them, I will not be able to return them to you,” Holmes cautioned.

“I know. I just want to know what happened.”

“Very well, then we will uncover the truth whatever it may be,” Holmes declared.

“Thank you, M. Holmes.”

Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgement, and then absently took a bite of the fruitcake - a mistake.

M. Dupond observed Holmes’s wince. “Perhaps in the meantime I will ask Mme. Beauregard if I can use the kitchen to make a real fruitcake according to my aunt and uncle’s recipe in return.”

“A most worthy endeavor!”

Holmes glanced encouragingly at Watson who smiled despite himself. “Indeed.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [In the Fields of Verdun](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4256611/A-Very-Holmesian-Christmas)): Stuck: Holmes and Watson are stuck together for a week in a place that isn't their home.

Holmes and Watson strolled down the lane through the center of the small village. The snow continued ceaselessly to fall, swirling to the ground around them. They were the only ones who took a leisurely pace; the few people that they passed hurried by to get out of the cold. Anyone who noticed their presence only drew their coats tighter and continued on even faster than before.

At last, Holmes and Watson came to the bakery; inviting and warm, with puffs of smoke continually billowing out from the chimney. They ducked inside and were greeted by the smell of fresh bread - as delicious as the young baker’s fruitcake had not been. Holmes easily occupied himself with the breads on display. If his keen gaze examined M. Renaud, the baker, it was impossible to tell.

“What do you say Watson? A fresh loaf of bread? Or a pastry perhaps?” Holmes suggested.

The sweet smell was intoxicating, but Watson’s attention was not so easily diverted, as he glanced between the breads and M. Renaud standing behind the counter, watching them, apparently none too pleased to see them.

“M. Holmes, the detective?” M. Renaud said in nervous greeting.

Holmes acknowledged the title.

“Is there anything you require?”

“A loaf of bread if you please,” Holmes said. To Watson, he added, “A charming respite from London, is it not?”

“Certainly,” Watson said, a little startled by the question.

“Is it difficult to keep everything in repair so far from the city?” Holmes asked M. Renaud.

If Watson seemed surprised, M. Renaud appeared utterly at a loss. He scrambled to find an answer. “A little, I suppose, but we manage well enough. M. Garnier is quite gifted with machinery and Mlle. Fontaine has helped me with fixing little things around the shop.”

“Excellent. Thank you, M. Renaud.”

M. Renaud handed Holmes the loaf of bread, wrapped to keep it secure even in the snow, and Holmes waved Watson on, handing him their loaf of bread as they departed from the shop. They went but a few paces from the door before Holmes’s cheery affect faded.

“Did you glean anything?” Watson asked.

“The bars on the door have not been recently replaced, nor has anything else of clear import which could have been stolen or broken in some struggle. I am afraid the passage of years is worse than even a hoard of Scotland Yarders, coming through to trample all the evidence. M. Renaud plainly knows something, but what?”

Holmes’s chin sunk to his chest in deep contemplation, and Watson did not dare disturb him as they returned to the inn.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Holmes sat in a chair by the fire, lost to the world. Watson and M. Dupond were left to work their way through the loaf of bread and wonder where Holmes’s methods had taken him on this occasion. That night, Holmes poured over M. Dupond’s letters from his aunt and uncle, searching for any shred of evidence they may have held as to the couple’s fate. Watson knew better than to call Holmes to bed.

And so the days passed beneath a swirling veil of ever-falling snow. Holmes spent the days in the parlour deep in contemplation, or out in the weather for hours on solitary walks, and his nights were spent curled up by the fire in their room, staring at M. Dupond’s letters. Watson fancied he could see Holmes slowly wasting away; his already narrow features becoming sharper still, his bright grey eyes, feverish, as though his intense concentration were the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Holmes only broke from his reveries to exclaim in frustration, “Plainly something has occurred, something is being concealed, but each clue leads to a fresh contradiction! My theory must be wrong, but I have discarded one theory for another  _ ad infinitum _ , each more unlikely than the last.”

“Perhaps rest would help, to enable you to see it with fresh eyes?” Watson dared suggest, but he knew it would be to no avail.

Holmes waved it off out of hand, not even dignifying the suggestion with a response. “If only the snows would cease and the paths would clear! It may be nothing, but in light of all that we now know, I cannot shake the significance of that which so forcefully struck your romantic nature; the castle looming upon the mountainside, where the angels go.”

“Holmes, that was just a passing fancy,” Watson protested, his own spine already prickling at the mention of it.

Holmes shook his head. “I wonder if it is not more dire than that, but without seeing for myself I cannot say. But until the snows pass, we are stuck.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [Ennui Enigma](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3915215/Ennui-Enigma)): Happy Holidays, Moriarty!

It was late in the evening. Holmes sat unmoving, watching the fire flickering in the grate. Outside was a flurry of white. The wind howled against the sides of the inn. Inside, however, all was quiet. If Watson had not known better, he would have concluded that Holmes had collapsed where he sat - perhaps for the best - but he was well aware that it could not be so easy. Only when the case was through would he fall into a fever. He looked so pale and wan; the last case had taken nearly all his strength and he had not yet recovered. Watson could only fear what would happen when he had no strength left to take.

“This is not what I meant to happen,” Watson murmured, only belatedly did he realize that he had voiced it aloud.

Holmes sprung to awareness; an indication of nerves tightly wound, his keen senses on the alert for any evidence that might present itself. “What would you have me do, Watson?” he asked sharply after sparing him a quick incisive look.

“Rest, eat on occasion - anything to ensure that you do not meet an early grave.”

“You know that this is a dangerous line of work,” Holmes chided with a dismissive wave. His bright eyes had already moved on from Watson, his thoughts already far away.

Watson, however, was not done with him. “Where is the danger?” he demanded, getting to his feet. “You are giving yourself up as the late Professor Moriarty could have only wished, and for what? Is the game truly worth the candle?”

“I have always held the work to be more important than the man.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Watson said bitterly. “But if you use yourself up now, what will tomorrow do without you?”

“That risk is always present, whether from Professor Moriarty or a misplaced step.”

“But you do not need to hurry it along!”

“I give each case exactly as it is due.”

“Have you come closer to the solution working yourself to the bone?”

“It is elusive,” Holmes acknowledged, “but only because I fear I have not given it enough. If only the snows would let up so we could at last journey out to the castle! This is a deep business Watson, deeper I fear than we had imagined.”

“I fear if you give any more, you will not have the chance to reach the solution.”

Outside the wind continued to howl.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [zanganito](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2799817/zanganito)): Holmes and Watson being the best tenants.

Watson awoke to a quiet morning. The world outside the window was bright with snow, still lazily drifting to the ground. Glancing over, he found the bed beside him unsurprisingly empty, as it had been when he had at last fallen into a fitful sleep. To his somewhat greater surprise, nor was Holmes curled up by the fire, his gaze distant, in a haze, whether of thought or artificially induced.

Holmes would have surely been able to deduce when he had left and where he had gone from a single glance, but Watson could only presume that he had gone out to investigate on his own, or perhaps for a solitary walk to clear his mind.

Watson’s presumption was borne out as he descended into the common spaces of the inn to find Holmes absent, just as he had been from their rooms.

When he sat down to a solitary breakfast, Mme. Beauregard greeted him in a particularly cheery mood. “Good morning, Doctor, a lovely morning, is it not?”

Watson nodded, but in truth he was distracted. “Have you seen Holmes about?”

“Yes, I believe he left some hours ago.”

“I hope he has not succumbed to the cold. When he is like this, it seems like he could endure anything through will alone, but his state has deteriorated to such an extent that I do not know. But he is probably fine and would chide me for worrying.”

“If you will pardon me saying so, Doctor, perhaps it is for the best that Mr. Holmes has gone out for some fresh air. I have noticed that he has been quite restless.”

“My sincerest apologies Mme. Beauregard. When he is on a case, I fear he forgets all else, his fellow lodgers included. How Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, puts up with him, I do not know.”

“And what could he have found here to warrant all this investigating?” she said dismissively.

Watson looked up at Mme. Beauregard, his eyes narrowed. “I fear there is certainly something afoot.”

She only shook her head. “Surely nothing worth all of the trouble. The inn has not been this quiet and peaceful in days.”

“Perhaps not,” Watson said, but he could not be certain, and nor could he bring himself to celebrate the weighty silence.

After breakfast, Watson retired to the parlour to read and wait for Holmes’s return, though he had little hope that Holmes would be in better spirits when he did arrive. However, as the morning wore into afternoon, and the afternoon approached the evening, the snows picked up outside with no appearance from Holmes.

When Mme. Beauregard came in with tea, Watson asked, “Have you seen Holmes come through? I thought perhaps I might have missed him as he went up to our rooms.”

“No,” Mme. Beauregard replied, “I have neither seen nor heard him.”

“He must be out investigating.” Watson glanced to the window and the quickly swirling snow. “I only hope that he has not gotten lost.

“He gives you much cause for trouble,” Mme. Beauregard remarked.

“He is not always like this; restless, or else gone for days at a time. Not long before we left London - before the latest case, about a month ago, Mrs. Hudson had been away visiting her family and Holmes and I had been left to our own devices. Most nights we went out on the town for dinner, or otherwise had cold leftovers from the icebox.

“But the night Mrs. Hudson returned, Holmes spent the whole evening in the kitchen. I did what I could to help, but it was like one of his chemical experiments expanded to take over the kitchen; half a dozen pieces all in motion to his exact specifications. But the end result was truly a feast to behold.

“Mrs. Hudson nearly cried as Holmes and I came into her little dining room, bearing the fruits of his labors. Holmes did it all with a flourish, of course, as though it were but a simple thing, but I believe it was his way of making amends - I was not the only one sorely affected when he staged his own demise.”

To Watson’s surprise, Mme. Beauregard nodded along. “Some things are worth suffering for those we have come to hold dear.”

Watson sighed. “The difficulty is when he brings the suffering upon himself. There is so little I can do, sometimes I wonder if it would not be better for both of us if I left him to do what he will without hindering him, rather than see him to his grave again. But while I can I must do something, musn’t I?” Watson glanced to the window again. “I only hope that he did not try to go to the castle while the snow was lighter this morning.”

“That would be foolhardy and dangerous. The mountain weather can change in the blink of an eye.”

“It would be just like Holmes.” Watson pushed himself to his feet. “I should go out and see if anything has befallen him. He may be quite alright, but I should not have waited so long.”

“Doctor,” Mme. Beauregard endeavored to stop him, “I fear the snows will only worsen.”

Watson shook his head and stayed her hand. “I cannot lose him again.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [A Very Holmesian Christmas](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4256611/A-Very-Holmesian-Christmas)): Danse Macabre: Holmes and Watson attend the funeral of one of their old clients.

The snow swirled around Watson in a wild dance of endless white. He trudged onward, dredging one foot from the snow and then the other, each step more difficult than the last. He could make out faint shapes through the snowy haze, fading in and out of view as the flakes flew by; distant shadows of towering trees and jutting rocks, all subsumed by the snow, in a world of white.

“HOLMES!” Watson cried out above the roar of the wind, his throat hoarse from every attempt before. “SHERLOCK HOLMES!”

But the only answer was the inhuman howl borne back into his ears.

Perhaps Holmes had not come out into the weather at all. Perhaps he was back in town, at this very moment, cozied away in some little hut, deducing the residents’ every secret, or back at the inn, having just missed Watson as he departed, laughing about the impossible coincidence of timing.

For an instant, Watson wondered if he could hear Holmes’s sharp, barking laugh, echoing through the mountains, but it could only have been a trick of the wind.

“Holmes,” he called back, his voice weak.

Watson shook with every clumsy step, his breath slow and shallow, his pulse weak. He was succumbing to the cold, he did not need to know the symptoms to tell. Eventually - sooner in the icy blizzard - his body would cease to function.

Already, his vision was beginning to darken; hazy shadows danced across his field of view. He seemed to be coming to the mouth of a tunnel as the darkness sharpened and seemed to coalesce into a yawning monolith.

Watson nearly ran into the stone wall before he realized what it was. He had arrived at the castle.

“Holmes!” he cried again, but his tired voice barely even reached his own numb ears.

His task complete with nothing to show for it, his strength faltered. One last time, he looked up, searching for any way he could gain entry into the castle, to at least find some shelter, where he could at last lie down and submit to the heavy exhaustion that burdened his every step.

But it seemed he was already lost. There, upon the wall, stood solemn angels, all in a row. Not warm and alive, but like statues at a cemetery, watching over his dear Mary’s grave and Holmes’s empty casket. Each step had felt like he had trudged a mile as they bore the coffin to the grave. And then part of himself - a part that he had disregarded until too late - had been lowered into the ground. The world slowly receded from above as the snow piled up around him.

In the distance he could hear long forgotten voices calling him. He reached for Holmes and for Mary.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [goodpenmanship](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4980144/goodpenmanship)): Sherlock Holmes solves a crime that occurred over one hundred years prior.

Holmes stumbled over the threshold and forced the grand doors closed against the howling wind. He could still hear the wind ringing in ears numb from the cold. His body shook and his head swam as though he had forgotten to breathe. The darkness around him was a dizzying swirl of bright impressions left by the white snow upon his eyes that looked no different whether they were open or closed.

He leaned against the wall as he waited for the world to right itself. A heavy exhaustion weighed upon his limbs, pulling him down toward the ground, begging for just a moment of rest. But he did not have long. Even though the walls buffered against the wind, he could still taste the bitter cold and feel it seeping into his bones.

It had been clear when he set out, the sky not blue, but the snow lighter than it had been in days. He knew the mountain weather could turn in a matter of hours, that was why he had left Watson behind at the inn; there was no reason for both of them to brave the winter’s storm. But Holmes could not wait any longer to confirm what he already suspected, to see for himself what secrets lurked in the castle.

He could not linger; he needed to uncover what he could while the last of his strength remained. His eyes reluctantly opened upon a cavernous hall. Any riches of its once great inhabitants were gone, likely long ago stolen or broken down into that which could still be used, leaving it only an empty husk of stone. The ground was caked with mud, long since dried, so much so that there was no water left to freeze. And the thoroughly trampled dirt was not the only evidence of more recent life. Looking closer - ignoring the protests of his stiff, clumsy legs - Holmes spied a tear of dark cloth embedded in the mud and a scrap of old paper tossed in a corner. It all must have been years old, but not so many.

The entrance hall led into a comparatively low, narrow, arched stone corridor. Holmes moved quickly, his whole body aquiver between the icy chill and the thrill of the chase. Unless he found fuel for fire, he did not have long. His eyes darted along the ground, searching in the shadows by the dim light that crept through the scattered windows, mere slits in the wall. The evidence was scarce, but he could follow the trail; a muddy bootprint here, a bit of tobacco ash there, as well as older signs; a scorch upon the wall, the scratch of a blade against the stone - a battle had been fought here.

He wound through labyrinthine passages into a small chamber that held even more of the same; tobacco and bootprints and even a few personal effects, abandoned to time. It had been a poor encampment, and a brief one. From there, Holmes quickly ventured on, keenly aware of his jittering legs, all too eager to misstep and let him fall to the ground, from which he likely would not rise.

The recent evidence dwindled as he passed deeper, but the scratches upon the stone now told their own ancient story. The ground was lined with the heavy tread of armor. And behind a battered door was a company of skeletons.

They had all been stripped of the armor they once wore, but their skeletons told a story of their own, sat slumped upon the floor - possibly tossed aside by later thieves, only interested in their possessions. But the bones were clear enough. There were no deadly fractures, no wounds inflicted without time to heal. They had all wasted away of cold and hunger, defenseless even with their swords.

Holmes’s legs shook so badly he barely made it back into the entrance hall before they gave way and he too fell against the wall. He had thought to inquire in the town about the castle, and he had heard the story. There had been a siege, but the lord had escaped before the assaulting armies broke through. Now he had uncovered the other half of the tale - perhaps known, but not worth speaking of - the conquering knights, finding themselves in an empty castle in the heart of winter with nothing left to eat but their own hubris, froze to death.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [Hades Lord of the Dead](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2535710/Hades-Lord-of-the-Dead)): Colonel Moran has a history with Doctor John Watson. What is it?

It has been theorized that one of the final symptoms of hypothermia is a sensation of warmth; men lost in the mountains have been found frozen in their undergarments, their heavy coats apparently sloughed off willingly in a fit of madness brought on by the severe cold.

Holmes awoke to a sensation of warmth, his skin so numb it was as though the hard stone beneath him had become soft. He felt everything as though through a thick woolen blanket; at once muted and prickly.

His eyes slowly opened to the bright light of day, reflected off of the swirling snow. But he was not out in it. The midday light filtered through the window, into their cozy room at the village inn. If not for Holmes’s still heavy, aching body, and prickling skin, it could have all very well been naught but a dream - a nightmare of ice and stone.

With a bit of effort, Holmes turned to his other side, perhaps searching for the only man he could imagine to have rescued him. However, there was no familiar figure sitting attentively at his beside, or dozing, tired from a long vigil, nor even a chair to seat him - the man himself presumably gone for but a moment to attend to some essential matter.

The other bed, however, was occupied by a solitary figure, unmoving even at such an hour.

“Watson!” Holmes attempted to cry out, though his voice was more a croak from overexposure to the cold air and disuse besides.

The figure stirred with a pained groan.

“Watson,” Holmes called again, low and urgent, but clearer.

With another groan, Watson turned to face Holmes. He looked as though he had been to hell and back.

“You came after me,” Holmes said. The dawning realization that Watson’s state was his own doing settled like a stone in his chest.

And still, always true to his nature, Watson’s eyes widened as he saw that it was Holmes who called to him. “Sherlock,” he whispered, as though the name were a fragile thing.

Holmes reached an unsteady arm across the gap between their beds. His hand found Watson’s cheek, warm, and already rough - it had been at least a day since he had last shaven.

Watson sighed into the touch and his eyes drooped. A heavy load of tension seemed to fall from his broad shoulders. His breathing settled, soft and steady.

He may have gone to rescue Holmes, but in such a state, he could have hardly succeeded. If not for some unknown benefactor, they would both still be out on the mountainside, perhaps only to be found with the thaw in spring.

Holmes’s eyes struggled to remain open, and so he let them fall, but for all of his exhaustion, when sleep came, it was a fitful one, pervaded by the howling of the icy wind.

* * *

When Holmes awoke again, it was again to a sensation of warmth, now intermingled with the rich, sweet smell of food - a stew, perhaps. He had forgotten what it was to feel hungry in the fever of work, but now his body keenly remembered what it was lacking, and had been further sapped away by his journey through the cold.

The golden evening light streamed through the window, illuminating Watson, now sitting up in bed, carefully eating dinner. He glanced reflexively down at Holmes and for a brief instant, their eyes met. Holmes could see the tension already beginning to melt away and Holmes’s lips had just remembered how to form a sheepish smile, when Watson turned away, even wearier than before.

Holmes wanted to protest, but he was in no position to do so. Instead, he merely looked at Watson, truly observed him, perhaps for the first time since he had begun his investigation.

Even as the color returned to his cheeks, his hair now groomed, his posture steady, Watson looked haggard; his eyes sunken and listless, his features wan. He was aged before his time. That Holmes had seen before in glimpses since his return; usually it was not apparent, but when he was particularly exhausted or at times if he thought that no one was looking, it was all too plain that he had been sorely used. And now it was plainer than ever.

Quietly, Holmes remarked, “It is all moot now, but I did not mean for you to follow after me; it was enough for only one of us to risk himself on a fool’s errand out onto the icy slopes, I did not wish to drag you along.”

Watson regarded Holmes, solemn and unflinching, as though he were a judge, weighing every word.

With some effort, Holmes foisted himself upright. “My line of work is a dangerous one, it is hardly just to bring the danger upon you. I knew that if you were aware of where I had gone that you would have no choice but to follow, so I said nothing.”

Holmes seemed to change the subject, but his tone remained somber, nearly bitter; “Did you never wonder why, even before I confronted Professor Moriarty upon that dreaded ledge, I preferred to remain abroad, pursuing my work in France rather than returning to London? It is true, there was a matter of particular import, as you noted, but the supposed importance of a case is little indication of its interest.

“I was not the only one to receive Professor Moriarty’s wrath. He also sent Colonel Moran with his airgun to get you out of his way when it was clear a confrontation would surely occur. I did the only thing I could think to do; ended what little association we still had and drew him away to France in the hopes that so long as I was away you would be of little interest to them. And that is why I could not return to London even after Moriarty had been bested. I could not bear for you to face the brunt of their revenge on my behalf. You could not know because the last thing I wished was for you to come after me.”

“Holmes,” Watson said, perhaps pleading, or perhaps arguing. But then, he seemed to think better of it, and looked away. Finally, he met Holmes’s eyes again. “It is well worth any difficulty, any danger, if there is anything which I can do to aid you in your work, or simply to be at your side. But” - his tone darkened - “whether I am present or not, you seem determined to meet your fate, by some criminal’s hand, or wasting away into nothing because, to you, your great mind is infinitely more important than the body upon which it depends. Perhaps there is truly nothing I can do.” He turned away.

“John,” Holmes protested, pushing himself onto shaking legs.

With one hand on the wall to balance himself, he hobbled across to Watson’s side, to join him on the bed. Watson moved aside to make space for him, but did not immediately welcome him.

Holmes continued, “I do not know if I will ever truly be able to repay you for all that you have suffered on my account, but I assure you that I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are not bereaved again.” 

Watson let out a shaky breath. He said no more, but Holmes expected no immediate forgiveness, he had gone too far for that.

Holmes rested a hand upon Watson’s knee and Watson did not pull away.

“I believe some supper is in order,” Holmes remarked, taking a lighter tone.

Watson turned to him, pleasantly surprised, if still wary, but he silently offered Holmes his spoon.

“Thank you, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, shifting so that they sat shoulder to shoulder.

When Holmes appeared to be preoccupied with supper, Watson’s arm slipped protectively around his waist.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [A Very Holmesian Christmas](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4256611/A-Very-Holmesian-Christmas)): Birthday: Holmes discovers that it's Watson's Birthday.

“This is a truly deep matter indeed, Watson,” Holmes remarked as they dressed for the day - liberated from their beds at last. “There is one more piece of evidence we require, and then I believe it will all fall into place. I fear it is not only M. Dupond whose family is missing.”

“You do not mean to go back to that castle,” Watson cautioned, already anticipating the worst.

“No, Watson,” Holmes said with a smile, “in our state, we will have to do without any further light the castle may have been able to shed upon the matter, and thankfully, I believe the final piece of this puzzle lies a little closer at hand.”

His toilet complete, Holmes straightened his shirtsleeves and turned to Watson, who was still occupied with the dresser. Holmes sidled over to Watson to peer over his shoulder, just close enough that his chest brushed against Watson’s back. Holmes, sobered, however, as he noticed what had occupied Watson so.

“A very nice handkerchief,” Holmes said softly. “A gift?”

Watson nodded. “From Mary. Five years ago, today,” he elaborated as he straightened himself and turned away from the dresser.

“Today?” Holmes asked, surprised. There was no particular significance he knew of for that day in particular. His eyes narrowed as a conclusion presented itself. “My sincerest apologies, Watson, I did not realize that today was your birthday.”

“It hardly matters,” Watson protested.

Holmes ignored it. “And a fine present I have given you. I am afraid it is no thanks to me that you have made it to this birthday at all.”

Watson took Holmes’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I have had worse; there was last year, and I reached thirty in a convalescent hospital.”

“Then you are sorely due for recompense,” Holmes declared. “I believe breakfast is first in order, and then we will see what we can do for a cake - I am afraid M. Renaud had proven himself not to be up to the task.”

“Holmes there is truly no need; what of the investigation?” Watson attempted, but it was difficult to mount too stringent of an argument, especially against a man so masterful as Holmes and on such a matter.

So, Watson allowed himself to be enthusiastically ushered into the dining room of the inn. Holmes vanished for a moment to speak with the innkeeper and then kept up a lively stream of conversation until Mme. Beauregard arrived with a full English breakfast. There were some substitutions to account for the season, of course, but it was truly a feast, especially compared with the more typical, light French petit-dejuner, which they had enjoyed in their time there.

“Thank you, Mme. Beauregard,” Watson said before she returned to the kitchen, “it is hardly necessary. Truly, there is nothing I can say or do to thank you enough for rescuing us from our foolish errand.”

“We could not leave you out to freeze,” Mme. Beauregard insisted. “And it was M. Leval and M. Auclaire who went out after you.”

“But we owe it to you for raising the alarm.”

“It is its own reward to see that you are both well again.”

When Mme. Beauregard had returned to the kitchen, Watson remarked to Holmes, “If the investigation is truly not so urgent, perhaps this afternoon we could pay a visit to M. Auclaire, and M. Leval and Beatrice, to express our gratitude.”

“You are right, Watson, we both owe them our thanks. On our way, we could stop by the shop to get something for Beatrice, and I am afraid I have neglected to get you a birthday present.”

“Holmes,” Watson protested, but Holmes would hear none of it. “A promise that you will try to look after your health would be gift enough.”

“That, Watson, I should have promised you years ago, but I will do all I can to make it up to you.”

“Thank you, Holmes,” Watson said, and their hands briefly brushed together across the table.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [W. Y. Traveller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4716573/W-Y-Traveller)): A calm sea.

A silent sea of white, undisturbed by any ripples or footprints, its gentle crests and dips frozen in place. The icy waves were interrupted only by stony islands with steep cliffs to the water; a hundred some plaques, standing in even rows. The first were old and worn away, pockmarked by the ages, but as they went on, their boots leaving a sharp impression in the otherwise unbroken expanse, the years ran swiftly past, until they came near to the present, not shining and new, but not yet worn away by the relentless pounding of time.

It was a still, solemn place, and even Holmes dared not speak above a quiet murmur, as though even he feared disturbing that which lay below the surface. “Observe, Watson, this is the most recent stone we have seen, and it still more than five years old.”

Watson, beside him, clung to Holmes’s arm, all too familiar with the scene.

Holmes glanced over at Watson in a silent expression of concern, with a comforting hand on Watson’s arm.

Watson shook his head and gave Holmes’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, in return. Aloud, he said, another ripple in the otherwise quiet air, “That is not so unusual in such a small town as this.”

“No, it is not,” Holmes assented, but an unspoken implication lingered.

Watson’s eyes meandered over the grey stones, searching for some indication of what secrets lurked beneath the calm surface. “But M. Dupond said that he could not even find his aunt and uncle buried here.”

“Nor can I find a stone for M. Beauregard, the late husband of our kindly innkeeper,” Holmes added. “Nor for Mme. Fontaine, the mother of Mlle. Fontaine. Or M. and Mme. Lefebre, who maintained the village shop before it came into the hands of M. Volant. Or M. Boucher, whose eldest son is now the butcher in his place. And they are not alone; recall all of the empty cottages which we saw from atop the ridge, though I did not see the significance at the time.”

“But if not here, where else could they be buried? What else could have become of them?”

“I believe it was you who found their grave, my dear Watson. Is it not customary to erect an angel to watch over the dead?”

“Holmes” - Watson hastily dropped his voice, lest it disturb the still air - “you do not mean to say- but why would they all be buried beneath the castle wall? No army has marched through since Napoleon.”

“No, I do not expect that it is something quite so dramatic.”

“But then what would necessitate such a grave?” Watson insisted. “And such secrecy? Surely not murder, and to this extent, in such a peaceful village.”

“It is unlikely to have been murder, but you know as well as I, Watson, that much cruelty and wickedness can lurk hidden beneath the calm surface of an apparently peaceful village.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [W. Y. Traveller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4716573/W-Y-Traveller)): Holmes and Watson attend a Christmas party. Chaos ensues.

The dining room and parlour of the inn had been decorated in the full holiday spirit. Tinsel hung from windows and draped across the mantle, and candles flickered on every surface, their light reflected in countless glass baubles. All through the day, people from the village had come and gone, delivering food and lending a hand with decorations, and then, at last, as evening fell, the party proper began. Men and women filtered in bearing hot dishes and warm greetings, until soon the inn was full of conversation and laughter, with children running about underfoot.

“It is difficult to imagine that such a lively village is host to such a dreadful secret,” Watson remarked softly into Holmes’s ear.

The two gentlemen sat off to the side, their by now customary chairs in the parlour huddled over by the window to allow space for partygoers to stand about by the fire. The villagers still gave them something of a wide berth, and there was no moment at which there were not any weary eyes upon them, but for the most part Holmes and Watson went ignored. 

“But did you not notice, Watson,” Holmes answered, his voice likewise low, “that most of the guests came alone. It is no wonder that they are so eager to celebrate together; few families have been left intact.”

Before Watson could reply - though his sympathetic eyes already told more than he could put into words - M. Dupond came over and joined them by the window.

“M. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said, greeting them each in turn, “I heard about what happened, and it is a relief to see that you are both well.”

“It is a relief to us as well,” Holmes said with a glance at Watson. “But something is troubling you, M. Dupond?”

M. Dupond leaned over and said, his voice nearly a whisper, so even Watson had to shift closer to hear, “Were you able to uncover anything? Do you know what became of my dear aunt and uncle?”

Holmes inclined his head. “I am afraid there is little to be done. The winters here are harsh and unforgiving, as the poor knights who sieged the castle in ages past discovered too late. The winter three years ago was a particularly difficult one, and it was not only your aunt and uncle who perished.”

“But then why all the secrecy?” M. Dupond demanded, his voice still hushed. “Why do they have no grave in the cemetery?”

“I am afraid there I can only conjecture.” Holmes steepled his hands in front of him and seemed to fall into contemplation. “Watson, you saw how many angels sat upon the wall, marking the unmarked grave. And yet, there are some abandoned huts, but the town is far from empty.”

Before M. Dupond could say anything more, a shout came from across the parlour and a pack of children ran past - the quartet who had staged their little crime scene for Holmes joined by a few others - ducking between legs and underneath plates, strewing chaos in their wake. They nearly knocked M. Dupond from his feet, but he managed to steady himself.

When they had passed, Holmes remarked, “But perhaps there is hope still.”

M. Dupond waited for Holmes to say more, but he remained lost in thought. M. Dupond glanced at Watson who only shrugged in response.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [W. Y. Traveller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4716573/W-Y-Traveller)): Doll.

The sky above was blanketed with thick white clouds. A few flakes of snow drifted gently down, but otherwise the day was clear. Holmes and Watson strolled down the lane through the center of town, on a shorter reprise of their daily walks. They went arm-in-arm, even closer together than before, meeting passers-by’s suspicious gazes with their own uncertainty.

“This is madness, Holmes,” Watson said at last, his voice hushed. “Perhaps it is truly nothing as everyone in the village has said, only a harsh winter. As you observed, small towns are frequently weary of outsiders, perhaps they are all merely reluctant to speak of such a tragedy. And M. Leval and M. Auclaire even went so far as to brave the snow to rescue us, after all of our investigating. Do you truly suspect that everyone in the village is concealing something more sinister?”

Holmes sighed. “In any other case, Watson, you would be the voice of reason.”

Holmes turned away and Watson followed his gaze across to the village shop, where the young girl was playing with a wooden doll.

“Hello, M. Detective!” she called out to them.

Holmes doffed his hat to her. “A very nice new doll - a gift from M. Voland?”

“Yes, M. Voland makes all sorts of things! My aunt and uncle say that he is much better at woodcarving than candle making.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said. “Good afternoon, Mlle. Lefebre.”

“Good afternoon, M. Detective!” She waved them along.

Watson looked back to Holmes to find him taciturn, his chin fallen to his chest, lost in thought. He knew better than to endeavor to draw Holmes from his reflections, so the remainder of their walk was a quiet one.

Only when they had returned to the parlour of the inn, which was still festively adorned, did Holmes speak. “My apologies, Watson. I fear I do not know what can be done.”

“You are at a loss on the case?” Watson asked, surprised.

“I must have been blind not to see it from the first,” Holmes exclaimed, “I who call myself an expert on the criminal classes.”

“Then you are certain that something is truly amiss? One tragedy is not enough?”

“As I have noted before, one may often glean the true disposition of parents from their children, and on that account all seems well; all of the children in the village are carefree despite the tragedy that has occured. And in many other respects, the village is as peaceful as could be hoped. And yet…”

“The men and women are wary and secretive.”

“Precisely, Watson. And not only that. It is all of these young men; M. Voland - who is not Mlle. Lefebre’s uncle, as I at first assumed - M. Renaud, M. Leval with his Beatrice, the hard, brutish Constable Durand, and several others. Did you observe, Watson, in the cemetery? They are all without antecedents, strangers to the village, merely taking the place of those who died, but none a perfect fit, and yet their neighbors act as though they have always been there. Do you not see it, Watson?”

“It is surely bizarre,” Watson attempted.

“I fear that it is more than that,” Holmes said gravely.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [cjnwriter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4334138/cjnwriter)): "The Christmas Eve robbery - or was it?"

Christmas Eve came with flurries of snow. Holmes and Watson sat, comfortable and warm, by the fireside at the inn. The golden firelight filled the room, reflected off all the baubles, hanging amidst the tinsel over the windows and on the mantle. It was, to all appearances, a peaceful, festive scene, and yet, Watson could not focus on his book. He glanced up once more, as though searching for the first sign of inevitable catastrophe. At least Holmes remained in his chair by the fire, deep in thought, but not, it appeared, entirely lost to the world.

“There is nothing to be gained by troubling yourself, my dear Watson.” Holmes spoke at last.

“I know, it is only…”

“Yes, I feel it as well. But it will not do to be overly hasty. No, Watson, I fear we must bide our time, and in the interim, perhaps endeavor to enjoy the season.”

Watson gave Holmes a smile, appreciative of the thought, at the least.

However, as it happened, they did not have long to wait. M. Dupond soon came hurrying into the parlour.

“M. Holmes!” he exclaimed. “Someone has been into my room, I swear it! I do not know if anything has been taken, but my letters have been rifled and my journal was not where I left it! There is something amiss here, as you are well aware!” There was an accusing note to M. Dupond’s tone.

“You are correct, M. Dupond,” Holmes replied levelly, but he did not take the matter lightly. “I fear there is something sorely amiss. Perhaps this latest incident will provide the answer to the question which I have been pondering - if you will permit me to see the evidence?”

“Certainly!” M. Dupond said, though there was some suggestion that he truly meant, “Finally!”

With a glance at Watson, who nodded in assent, Holmes stood and followed M. Dupond to his room, Watson close behind.

“You have touched everything,” Holmes remarked dryly, as he stood on the threshold, examining every corner of the room before he dared step inside.

“Of course. I had to see if anything was missing,” M. Dupond answered.

“Of course,” Holmes repeated with a wry smile. But he then waved it off. “I may still be able to discover something to indicate the identity of the culprit.”

Holmes stepped into the room to look here and there, leaving no paper unturned. On his hands and knees, he searched the floor, and then leaped up again to check the tops of the furniture. At last, when every surface had been combed over, he made to leave, waving Watson along.

“Did you find anything?” M. Dupond asked urgently.

“I fear someone is not pleased with your investigation. I am only surprised that this did not occur sooner.”

“Then what will you do?” M. Dupond demanded.

“We will wait.”

* * *

The night before Christmas, snow fluttered down outside the window, but inside, not a creature stirred. Holmes and Watson had turned in for an early night, each in his own bed, ensconced in thick blankets against the cold of night, though their minds lingered on mysterious misdeeds as they drifted toward sleep.

And then, out of the quiet, came a soft sound. Perhaps Mme. Beauregard was not yet abed, or M. Dupond, still restless, after his room had been left in disarray. However, the noise did not remain in the kitchens nor make its way toward M. Dupond’s chamber. Instead, it crept quietly down the hall toward the room where Holmes and Watson lay sleeping.

With a creak, the door slowly opened. Concealed under the shadow of night, a figure stole inside. In the middle of the room, it stopped, as though to assess its surroundings. Then, it silently dove for the nightstand between the two beds.

In his bed, Holmes began to stir.

The figure froze.

Holmes soon fell silent, but it took no further chances. It grabbed a notebook off the table and hurried back toward the door.

Watson, not asleep at all, leaped from his bed after it, but the figure was faster. Meanwhile, Holmes lifted up a lantern from beside his bed. For an instant, a thin beam of light shining from between the dark shutter illuminated a proud young woman before she fled into the night. It was Mlle. Fontaine.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [Domina Temporis](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5412505/Domina-Temporis)): On the first day of Christmas…

It was an early night as Christmas Day came to an end. The whole village was dark and quiet, covered in a silent shroud of glistening snow. The snow was unbroken but for a single set of fresh footprints; the small tread of a woman’s boot, leading to the door of the inn. Inside, the fireplace in the parlour was already nearly down to glowing embers, its light supplemented by only a few lanterns, which shed a dim flickering light on its few inhabitants. Watson sat by the fire, while Holmes stood just beside it, his tall, thin figure in dark silhouette. Both of their attention was fixed upon a young lady who had, just moments before, burst into the parlour from the frigid evening.

As Mlle. Fontaine entered she had seemed to be on the verge of exclaiming, but once she had acquired the audience she sought, she faltered, catching her breath upon the threshold.

“M. Holmes,” she said, as much a question as a statement.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“I have heard that you help people.”

Holmes demurred, “I endeavor to solve the small problems which are presented to me.” He motioned for her to continue.

However, Mlle. Fontaine hesitated. “Perhaps I should not have come.” She glanced out the window, but all she could see was the falling snow, drifting lazily to the ground. But that seemed to be enough to strengthen her resolve, and she turned to face Holmes once more. “I must apologize for last night’s trespass, but I fear I had no choice. If I do nothing the consequences will be too terrible to bear. I had to know how much you had discovered.”

“I confess, this possibility was not one that I had foreseen,” Holmes said. “You are here on M. Renaud’s behalf?”

“Yes, he is not a very good baker, but he is a good man, and I love him with all my heart and soul.”

Holmes and Watson exchanged a knowing glance.

To Mlle. Fontaine, Holmes said, “You defend him, even though you know that he and his companions are fugitives, seeking refuge from the law?”

“Fugitives?” Watson interjected.

“Yes,” Holmes said, a wry smile betraying his pleasure at the effect he had produced, and at last he gave Watson the explanation for which he had waited so long; “escaped while being transported to gaol, if I am not mistaken” - and Mlle. Fontaine could offer no disagreement. “They took refuge in the castle before coming to occupy the village, filling the roles of those who had so conveniently died in that difficult winter. It is on their account that the village has been cowed into silence.”

“Not cowed into silence!” Mlle. Fontaine protested. “Well, at first, perhaps, by Constable Durand, but even he did little more than bark. They have not hurt anyone since they arrived, I swear it! Everyone who has passed died - God forbid - naturally, in that terrible winter. Without dear Jean - that is M. Renaud - and the others, we would not have been able to rebuild. Whoever they were in the past, we owe them all a great debt - even you were saved by M. Leval and Beatrice for all your interfering.”

“We owe them our gratitude,” Holmes acknowledged. “But even if those such as Mme. Beauregard and yourself are content to remain silent on the fugitives’ behalf, there are others who are not so pleased, your own father among them.”

“Papa is a stubborn old man, but truly he owes as much to Jean as anyone. Jean has done so much to help us.”

However, Holmes was not to be distracted. “It is also on their account that those who died were so hastily buried.”

“Yes,” Mlle. Fontaine admitted, “my own mother is buried beneath the castle wall. But there was no better way. The spring was quickly approaching and with it all the visitors who come through the village. We had no time. Jean and the others could not risk discovery and who would wish to stay in a decimated village - and without travellers, our livelihoods would vanish. We had no choice. So now, only in the winter can we mark their graves with angels.”

“My sincerest condolences,” Holmes said.

“But now,” Mlle. Fontaine continued, encouraged by Holmes’s sympathy, “it may all come to nothing. You know what he - what M. Dupond means to do?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied, “I am aware that he has grown impatient with my methods. It is inevitable that he would seek another opinion.”

“Please, M. Holmes, you must stop him! The passes are closed now with the snow, but I have heard that by the new year, it will be clear enough to travel. Please, does Jean - do we all not deserve a little peace?”

Holmes considered the young woman, her desperate eyes shining with hope.

“You would do all this for M. Renaud?” Holmes asked at last.

“I would give him anything,” she insisted.

“We will do what we can,” Holmes said, but he made no promises.

“Thank you, M. Holmes! Our lives rest in your hands. Now, I must go, quickly, before anyone wonders where I have gone.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [A Very Holmesian Christmas](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4256611/A-Very-Holmesian-Christmas)): Boxing Day

The 26th of December dawned bright and clear. The day began peaceful and quiet. However, it was not to last. That morning, M. Dupond came into the dining room of the inn, where Holmes and Watson were already in the midst of breakfast, talking between themselves in hushed voices. They sprang apart as M. Dupond approached, to sit as though they had merely been having some casual conversation.

M. Dupond made no pretense. “M. Holmes, I know that you have discovered everything. Tell me, what truly happened to them?”

Holmes leaned back in his chair. “I fear that history has not changed in these past few days. As I have said, the winters here are harsh and unforgiving. I expect that it was an early frost which brought a premature end to the harvest, followed by an unusually frigid winter; and livestock are also susceptible to the cold. As Watson and I were unfortunate enough to experience ourselves, it is a difficult terrain. Supplies dwindled and I fear there was little that could be done, and so many died.”

“But you yourself said that there is something more amiss,” M. Dupond insisted, joining them at the table. “That cannot be all! Not with all the secrecy and the attempt upon my rooms - of which you still have not caught the culprit.”

Holmes examined M. Dupond, as though searching him for the answers to his own queries, as he weighed the consequences of M. Dupond’s unsatisfied curiosity. At last, Holmes steepled his hands in front of him and said, “As to your aunt and uncle’s fate, that is all. They were among those who perished in that harsh winter.”

“But-” M. Dupond began to protest.

However, Holmes motioned for silence. “That is not the complete account of what has become of this village. In truth, even though I hold all of the evidence, I still do not know what to make of it.”

“What do you mean?” M. Dupond demanded.

“Early that spring, several fugitives came into the village. You have surely noticed all of these unattached young men. They hid in plain view, taking the places of those who had died in the winter - if imperfectly so. I cannot believe that the villagers accepted this without protest, and I expect that it was chiefly Constable Durand’s role to enforce their silence. However, weakened by the harsh winter, they could not have put up much of a fight, and there is no evidence that it came to violence.”

“They have taken over the village?” M. Dupond asked, his voice low, glancing around as though he expected Constable Durand to leap out from behind any corner.

“And yet…” Holmes said. “It is little surprise that the people of a decimated village might be grateful for an inrush of hale young men, eager to take any work that may arise. They truly do appear to have integrated themselves with the village. Even Constable Durand is more intent on warning off strangers than maintaining control over the village - and what else has he to do; you have no doubt observed how disinclined the people of the village are to turn to outside aid. I can find no evidence of any crime aside from the attempt upon your rooms, which I have assurances will not occur again.”

“But surely, there must be something,” M. Dupond protested, but even he seemed not to know what he was looking for so frantically.

Holmes shook his head. With some sympathy, he said, “I fear your aunt and uncle died of cold or hunger. It is a tragedy, but there is no one to be blamed for it. And is not the Feast of St. Stephen a day of charity?”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [W. Y. Traveller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4716573/W-Y-Traveller)): "Time is not on your side."

Holmes, Watson, and M. Dupond were all settled in the parlour of the inn; Holmes and Watson each reading, and M. Dupond lost in thought.

They were all interrupted, however, by the sudden arrival of Constable Durand. M. Dupond immediately tensed, and only Holmes appeared entirely at ease, casually putting aside his book as the constable entered the parlour.

Constable Durand began with a cordial, “Good day, gentlemen.” But there was a less pleasant undercurrent to his words.

“Good day, Constable,” Holmes replied languidly, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Constable Durand stepped between their chairs and fire, so he loomed over the three of them as he turned directly to business. “A serious matter, M. Holmes. We are a small town, but we try to be welcoming to visitors; they are the life of the village in the summer. However, we cannot stand for men coming in from the city and prying into our private affairs.”

At this, M. Dupond could remain silent no longer. “It is not just your affairs! I have more claim to this village than you; my father is from here and it is my aunt and uncle who were among those who have died!”

“We have no records of them,” Constable Durand insisted, rounding upon M. Dupond.

“But they were here! I know that they died that winter and that you and M. Renaud and all your accomplices escaped from gaol and came in and replaced everyone!”

“You would do to watch your step!”

“Gentlemen,” Watson interrupted the brewing fight, “there is no reason for this to come to blows. It is too late anyway; we know everything. And do not fear, Constable, we have no intention of disrupting the life you have found for yourselves. M. Renaud and Mlle. Fontaine, at least, are owed a fair shot, are they not? And we ourselves are indebted to M. Leval.”

M. Dupond’s steely glare softened and Holmes said, “Indeed, Watson. I could have put it no better myself. And Constable, I fear you have a much more serious matter to attend to; time is against you.”

“What do you mean?” Constable Durand demanded.

“It is true that my own talents of deduction are of an uncommon sort, but if the combined efforts of M. Dupond, Dr. Watson, and myself were able to uncover your secret, it is inevitable that eventually someone else of a less forgiving nature will discover it as well.”

“I should have never let you come here at all!” Constable Durand exclaimed.

Holmes tutted. “That would never do. As you have said, visitors are the life of your little village; you would have the villagers up in arms in an instant. And there would be no more effective way to draw in the official force than to threaten away any outsiders who come through.”

M. Dupond still appeared somewhat uncertain, but he nodded along. “You could have simply told me what became of my poor aunt and uncle and then I would have left you alone!” Then, his voice fell. “It is as M. Holmes said; that they starved that winter?”

“Probably,” Constable Durand answered, gruffly, but not so unkind.

M. Dupond let out a sigh and his head fell into his hands.

Holmes spoke up once more, “Your disguise is nearly perfect. Even I would not have noticed anything was amiss had M. Dupond not brought it to my attention - though in this instance, Watson was more astute than I. You have all lived here long enough that there is little indication of your former occupations. It is only your wary fear of discovery that remains to reveal you. Perhaps my dear Watson has been correct from the first; we all would benefit from a little peace.”

“Perhaps so,” M. Dupond acknowledged at last.

“Thank you, M. Holmes,” Constable Durand said gruffly and with some reluctance, before taking his leave.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [zanganito](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2799817/zanganito)): Cold

The fire in Holmes and Watson’s chamber was already down to glowing embers. Holmes set the candle on the nightstand and blew it out before sliding into bed. Watson turned toward him, so that their noses were only inches apart. They maneuvered their legs to keep pointy knees from jabbing into each other.

Watson hissed as Holmes’s icy foot brushed past his calf.

“My apologies, my dear Watson,” Holmes whispered with a silent chuckle. “I am afraid that you will need to be warm enough for us both.”

Watson gave Holmes a severe look, but his arm found its way around Holmes’s waist regardless and Holmes took that as a sign to nestle his cold nose into the crook of Watson’s neck. They drew closer still, so they lay nearly chest-to-chest, their legs intertwined, ensconced in the heavy blankets.

“You are not still suffering from the cold?” Watson asked, a hand on the still cool skin of Holmes’s back.

“Not with your assistance,” Holmes teased. However, in response to Watson’s serious gaze, he replied, “There is no cause for concern; I appear to have fully recovered, it is only the passing chill of the evening. But I do find myself less inclined to venture out into the weather.”

“Good,” Watson said, perhaps more pointedly than was, strictly speaking, necessary.

“And you, my dear Watson? You feel quite warm enough” - Holmes’s hand had slipped beneath Watson’s nightgown, to rest upon his stomach - “but I should very well know that appearances may be deceiving.”

“I am quite all right.”

“Excellent,” Holmes proclaimed. His other hand gently rested on Watson’s war-torn shoulder, as though to ease away any ache that may have lingered. Quietly, he said, “I feared that I had truly been the death of you.”

“As did I,” Watson admitted. “I thought those angels upon the wall were truly the heavenly hosts.”

“You have my eternal gratitude for spurning them in favor of our lowly mortal plane.”

Watson shook his head against the pillow. “It is the wise and noble Beatrice we have to thank - on both of our accounts.”

He could feel the rumble of Holmes’s low laughter. “You are right, Watson; she should have oats and apples for all of her days.”

“Indeed,” Watson said with a yawn, resting his head by Holmes’s shoulder. “Thank you for returning to me,” he murmured.

“Always, John.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [cjnwriter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4334138/cjnwriter)): "Throw pillows."

“Good morning, M. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” M. Renaud greeted them as they came into the bakery. He was still somewhat nervous and wary, but he endeavored to welcome them cheerfully enough.

“Good morning,” Holmes replied, and Watson doffed his hat to the young baker.

They were not the only ones in the bakery that morning. M. Dupond was already standing by the counter, holding not a loaf of bread, but an embroidered pillow, which he hastily put aside to bid them a good morning as well.

“An antique,” Holmes observed.

“Yes,” M. Dupond said, picking the pillow up again, to cradle it delicately in his arms, “M. Renaud was kind enough to give it to me - and a few other things; my aunt and uncle’s belongings. Some things have been sold, of course, but most of them are still here.”

“That is wonderful,” Watson declared with a glance at M. Renaud.

M. Renaud only shrugged. “I have no need for them, and they seemed to be of some importance. I only regret that we were not able to keep their pictures; we did not think anyone would come for them.”

“No, of course not,” M. Dupond said sadly. More brightly, he continued, “But these pillows were embroidered by my grandmother; I remember them from when I visited as a child. I only wish that my papa could have seen them.”

“You can come tomorrow to see if there is anything else from your family which you would like to keep,” M. Renaud offered.

“Thank you! Though I do not mean to empty out your home.” M. Dupond hesitated. “The pillows are a pair, are they not? You could keep one for your sofa, and if it is truly agreeable to you, I will take the other.”

“They are hardly mine by rights.”

M. Dupond paused for but an instant before saying, “I insist.”

“Very well,” M. Renaud said, and they shook on it.

When M. Dupond had departed, M. Renaud abruptly appeared to remember Holmes and Watson. “Gentlemen, is there anything you require?”

“A loaf of bread, if you please,” Watson said, as Holmes was preoccupied with his own observations.

As M. Renaud handed Watson the bread, he said, his voice low, “Mlle. Fontaine told me that you are to thank for sparing us the risk of discovery.”

“Not at all,” Holmes replied, his attention returned to M. Renaud. “It is hardly our doing. We simply wish you and Mlle. Fontaine the best.”

“And you, M. Holmes and Dr. Watson,” M. Renaud said as they took their leave, back out into the clear winter day.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [mrspencil](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2328726/mrspencil)): a winter market

In the long winter nights, the village was silent; all the shops shuttered up, and the only light was the warm glow that emanated from the windows of the cottages on the mountainside, everyone huddled inside, out of the cold. However, on that evening, though the sun had since settled below the horizon, the village was alive with lights and laughter. The lane that ran through the center of town was crowded with men and women wandering to and fro or stopped to talk in eager voices, and children scurrying about underfoot. Everything was illuminated by candles, scattered about like flickering stars.

Holmes and Watson meandered through the crowd, arm-in-arm, still strangers to the quiet, vibrant village, but content so long as they were together.

Watson took a deep breath of the sharp night air, and with it he caught a whiff of something wonderful. “Holmes, do you smell that?”

“An excellent treat for a cold evening,” Holmes agreed, but there was no urgency in his manner.

For all of the commotion around them, Holmes’s attention was fixed upon Watson, with a keen, steady gaze and a clever smile. Watson tore himself away from it all to glance back at Holmes, his eyes shimmering in the candlelight. They shifted a little closer, their shoulders bumping together as they went.

They passed by M. Voland’s shop, where Mlle. Lefebre was arranging little wooden figures for display while M. Voland spoke with an older man and woman.

“The young Mlle. Lefebre’s guardians; her aunt and uncle,” Holmes observed.

Watson gave Holmes an exasperated look that was in truth more fond.

“I have been derelict in my duties,” Holmes remarked as they paused to browse through the shop window, “I still have yet to give you a present for your birthday or for the holiday. A souvenir, perhaps, of our vacation?’

Watson could only think of the wooden angels and shook his head.

“No, perhaps not,” Holmes acknowledged, following Watson’s train of thought.

“A gift is hardly necessary,” Watson took the opportunity to add.

Holmes met Watson’s gaze. To him, Watson was as ever like an open book, now displaying cautious affection.

“It is all right, Holmes, truly,” Watson said with a gentle smile - he was possessed of his own powers of observation, though he denied them. He gave Holmes’s arm a reassuring squeeze for good measure.

“If you insist, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, but his wry smile suggested that a gift Watson would receive whether he felt it necessary or not.

They wandered on toward the bakery, from which the enticing smell emanated.

“It appears that M. Renaud’s fruitcake is not so representative of his baking after all,” Holmes remarked.

From M. Renaud - aided by Mlle. Fontaine - they got piping hot beignets, and M. Leval had set up a fire nearby to roast chestnuts, around which many had gathered, not only for a taste, but also to savor the warmth of the flames. Holmes and Watson joined them, lingering by the fire as they enjoyed their sweet acquisitions.

“It is truly a lovely evening,” Watson said, but his gaze remained only on Holmes, his features aglow in the firelight.

“It is indeed,” Holmes replied, resting a hand at Watson’s back to draw him closer still.

They were about to continue on down the lane when a hush fell over all of those assembled. Holmes craned over the crowd to see as a small chorus began to sing in the new year.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's Prompt (from [cjnwriter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4334138/cjnwriter)): "That confounded deerstalker."

On that January morning, the quiet little village inn was a flurry of activity. The skies were blue and the passes were clear once more, but snow always loomed upon the horizon.

“I believe it is time we returned to London,” Holmes had declared.

“Yes, I have also begun to long for home,” Watson said.

So, bags were hastily packed, rooms scoured for anything which could have been mislaid in a month of residence. M. Dupond joined them, to return to Marseilles before the snow impeded travel again.

“A highly successful vacation,” Holmes remarked as they loaded the carriage. “I must thank Dr. Ansruther for his recommendation.”

Watson found himself in no position to protest, but he contented himself with adding, “If not quite what the doctor ordered.”

Holmes chuckled. “Perhaps not.”

But a smile exchanged between them said that all was well.

“I did not find what I had hoped for,” M. Dupond remarked more somberly, “but thanks to you, M. Holmes, at least I know what became of my dear aunt and uncle, and M. Renaud was kind enough to part with some of their remaining belongings, to give me something to remember them by.” It was on M. Renaud’s account that M. Dupond’s bags were heavier than they had been when he had arrived.

They were all about to pile into the carriage when there was a sudden gust of wind.

“Confound it!” Holmes exclaimed.

All eyes turned to him and Watson asked urgently, searching for any trouble, “What is it?”

Holmes’s now bare head, his hair windswept, told the tale. “I am afraid it is a lack rather than a fresh obstacle. I fear my deerstalker has gone.”

They all glanced around, but it was nowhere in sight, and the cold wind continued to blow, if perhaps without so much force. They were left without any other choice, but to huddle into the carriage, Holmes first, his ears already beginning to turn pink from the cold.

“We will have to get another in London, but in the meantime you can have my cap,” Watson offered, once they were all comfortably inside.

“No, my dear Watson, I would not leave you bare-headed.”

“I have my bowler in the trunk.”

“A city hat, Watson? That would do you no good here, I fear.” 

“A scarf, then?” Watson suggested, untying his own.

“I will be mistaken for a little old lady,” Holmes said, but he allowed Watson to tie the scarf around his head as they set off back down the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, 2020 and this story come to an end! Happy New Year, everyone!!
> 
> Thank you for coming along for this bumpy ride! I especially want to thank [Hades Lord of the Dead](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2535710/Hades-Lord-of-the-Dead) for coordinating the [December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness](https://www.fanfiction.net/community/December-Calendar-Challenge-of-Awesomeness/111428/) again this year, and everyone else who participated for the prompts that challenged my storytelling abilities at every turn!


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